A Sterling Dream
Up jump onto the pedestal of a deep sleep dream, where I was taking a very important test, seated in an uncomfortable chair. A childhood friend of mine persistently disrupted my test-taking focus, and time ran out and by then I had left many questions unanswered on the test form. Nick, this childhood friend, seemed to be trying to sabotage my future, which was dependent on me completing and acing the test. Anger built up in me, and I threw a cantaloupe at Nick, but just before it hit his chest, he morphed into a girl whom I currently work with, so I instantly regretted not restraining myself in my catapulting of this cantaloupe at another life form. It hit the girl, making a resounding whap! Dream anger is maybe a catharsis, because I would never in the aching waking world throw a cantaloupe at anyone. Fruit is for feeding, not for pelting. Then, an unknown woman insistently tried to sell me a hand-knit sweater, size XXXS (extra extra extra small), vibrant green and navy blue, suggesting I purchase it for my nephew Alex. But I told her, "No, he already has that same style of sweater, and, anyways, that won't fit him. Lady, cool your jets, please. Besides, I'm too simple of a man for your materialistic solicitations." Then I materialized elsewhere, on the porch of a country home atop a grassy hill. The light was dim as full storm clouds stirred about in the sky. Wind heavily petted the grass every which way, as I put on a posture of a plaintive guitar player. I really surprised myself in the way I finger-picked as if the motion of my digits were liquified, dancing to a beautifully improvised suite of arpeggios and triplets and couplets. Let's call it the Sterling Dream Suite. Bunnies marched by, looking for the personification of Easter. The one who threw all worldly paradoxes into the oubliette of rain water purity, to then lift it out clean as happy flowers. Clean as happy purple stars twinkling in the firmament of a jazzified tomorrow, a tomorrow so in sync with itself that its exhalations and inhalations worked in tandem to spell out epiphanies on silver stones for the creatures to marvel over easily, no translation required. Tomorrow personified would be likened to an improvising jazz drummer t-tapping the hi-hat, the cymbal, and the snare in the most jive and alive configuration of sounds. The profile of his octopus silhouette would reveal 8 elbow joints reeling like pistons. Soon, I would grow weary of my own musicianship; it was only a matter of time before I realized the narcissism in my aspirations for some type of jazz jizm recognition was a ten-fold trifling silver pipe dream. The cliche of rock and roll as a one unit verb took on an empty meaning, when maybe once it had vitality. Bunnies streamed by behind a diaphanous fence of blades of grass where the blending of innumerable shades of green within the light spectrum shone dreamily to anyone who cared to stare at the harem of hare. Divide by two infinitely so, and you will begin to discern the monumental mural of matter and vacuum that awaits you outside the doorway of your consciousness. It was in this iteration of a dream epiphany within a dream epiphany that the acute sound of a tipping, clinking drinking glass in the dish rack woke me. Either that, or Andrea had poked me. She then spoke to me, and we got the ball rolling on this early April Sunday. We did breakfast, we did laundry, we did sun-bathing, we did reading, we did cleaning, we did grocery shopping, we did web-surfing, we did dinner, I applied for a job up north, and, finally, we did make sure to say to one another, goodnight, I love you. She returned to the zzzzzzip code of sleep, and here I am still at the penumbra and glow of the computer emptying my mind of thoughts, words, and makeshift sterling dreams.